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morethanhonour) wrote2013-03-27 11:41 pm
morethanhonour) wrote2013-03-27 11:41 pm
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The Price of Peace - Chapter Seventeen
The Price of Peace
Book Three
Chapter Seventeen
Joseph all but threw himself off his horse as soon as Luke York, the Farley family’s groom approached him. He heard the man say something but ignored him entirely. What mattered— the only thing that mattered— was seeing the elder Mister Farley. During his entire ride, he had thought only about how fast his horse could go for how long without laming the creature for life. He had not thought to consider what he would say or how he would phrase all of this. He had just expected, somehow, for his mentor to understand how important it was to protect an enemy of the king— of any king— from one of His Majesty’s naval intelligence officers. He had not realised how near he was treading toward treason, if he had not already crossed that fatal line. Perhaps if he gave his oath to repay this act with a hundred each tenfold more important to England and made good on his word, the man would somehow begin to see how peculiar of a case this was. For his part, in full honesty, Joseph was not sure he could offer any true explanation. Somehow, Edward and Martineau and their plight had become inexorably entwined with his love for Nathaniel and to aid one was to prove and affirm the other. It made no sense, he knew it, but he was powerless to change any of it.
He felt some deep relief when he entered the house and saw not Nathaniel but Martineau standing there, as if to greet him. Joseph smiled despite the exhaustion stalking his every movement. It did not matter to him how they had last parted, not in this moment. He cared only that the man was here, far sooner than he had anticipated. That meant his note had been seen and at least partially heeded and obeyed. For all he knew, of course, Mister Farley might have sent at once for Miles. He could, at least, hope that had not passed just yet.
“Monsieur Du—” Martineau caught himself and corrected. “Monsieur Clay. If I could have a moment of your time before you—”
“In a moment, Capitaine,” he said in French. Catching the maid hurrying by at the arm, he said in English, “Is Mister Farley in his room? I must speak with him.” She began to respond, but he released her, sure of the answer. “Of course he is. I’ll only disturb him for a moment or two.”
Joseph strode down the hall quickly, his long steps allowing for it even more so than usual. Whatever his host and teacher had assumed about Martineau’s presence, he would see to setting the record straight while the needs of his patient were addressed. After that, he would explain himself to Nathaniel, detail his predicament, and devise some fairy tale for Rebecca. Perhaps he would even leave the latter task to Martineau himself. Whom he must also sit down with at some point if they were to reach some sort of accord.
The calmer he became, the clearer his mind got. As his thoughts arranged themselves into something bearing a resemblance to coherency, he realised the undertaking to which he had volunteered himself. Still, he would see to everything. Now that he could view the tasks which must be achieved, he could order them according to the most pressing. Nathaniel and Martineau were key, naturally. Rebecca was, at best, a small, secondary concern. The patriarch of the Farley family and his own sage, however, was primary. Without his base cooperation, all else was meaningless. Joseph fathered all his nerve and entered the man’s private parlour.
The sight of Nathaniel sitting in his father’s great armchair, draped in the shadows of the fire, surprised him.
“Nathaniel,” he whispered. He tried to explain to himself why this was so odd. It was perfectly ordinary for the other man to visit his father. Every other thought left his mind for a moment, and he saw only that scene in this instant. He considered how Nathaniel leaned back, away from the firelight. He took in the silence from all corners. Then, it dawned on him. This seemed so queer to him because Nathaniel was alone and seated where Joseph had only ever seen Mister Farley sit. His voice wavered. “Nathaniel, what’s wrong?”
“You’re too late, Joseph,” Nathaniel replied, his quiet voice barely audible. Perhaps, he considered, he did not want to hear himself. “Father’s dead.”
Joseph fell silent. He recognised the expression, now. He had seen Nathaniel look that way before. Eight years ago, when he’d first come to Heather Grange, he’d seen the young master still in a fog of melancholy over the loss of his mother. Then, Nathaniel had been skirting the edge, eager to leave it but with no certainty as to how. He had only needed an offered hand to pull himself from it, and Joseph had been happy to give that assistance. Now, though, he was here to prevent him from wandering too far in to start. He crossed the room and knelt in front of the chair. Without a word, he folded Nathaniel’s hands then closed his around them. He looked up, straight into the other man’s eyes.
“Nathaniel,” he whispered. “Promise me you’ll stay with me. I need you here, Nathaniel. Rebecca needs you, too.” He tightened his told on his sweetheart’s hands. “I’m sorry, my love. Grieve, yes, but you cannot leave us. Please, Nathaniel. You must promise me you’ll stay here with us. I know it’s hard. I know you want to be away.”
“Of course,” Nathaniel muttered. He held Joseph’s gaze, not clutching to his hands or attempting to break the contact. He sounded so tired, Joseph wanted to send him to bed, but he knew sleep would do little for this sort of fatigue. “I can’t leave. I’m the only one who can’t leave. Do you realise that?” Joseph almost spoke but swiftly thought better of it. Whatever Nathaniel had to say, he would let him say it. “Rebecca is ill so often. She must be watched. She only tolerates servants so much and so long before she must have family tend to her. Henry staggers about the country to God knows where without a care for anyone else. Father falls ill, and I must return to see to him. Even you may come and go as you like. But I can’t leave.”
Joseph squeezed his hands. It would have harmed his heart less to hear the words shouted. Even if Nathaniel had made them accusations. Instead, they had merely fallen from his lips as fixed facts to which he was wholly resigned. “Darling,” he murmured, hoping a sweet tone would help warm this man who meant so much to him and whom he feared was fast slipping away.
“Come,” Nathaniel said. He hauled himself to his feet and pulled his hands fee. “My father charged me with seeing your instructions regarding our French guest carried out.” He walked toward the door of the room, bearing for the hall, and Joseph rose with haste to follow. “I will see it done, but you knew that.” Joseph watched the back of Nathaniel’s head, keeping pace so he was ever two steps behind him. For now, the man had no need for a doting lover, so Joseph regained. “All I ask is that you explain,” he said as he led him out back doors and into the bracing cold air, “why you have sent him to my house.”
‡ ‡ ‡
He was enough of a gentleman not to verbally point out to Clay that he had tried to warn him. Clay likely would have taken issue with the remark; Mister Farley certainly would have. He would never have said it in front of the master of the house, but Remy did not, for one moment, suppose the man would not somehow learn of it had he uttered the words. Fear of reprisal was not all that silenced him. Even he respected a house in mourning.
It took Clay two days to seek him out. The head of the household had to be seen to, then his sister, and the burial arrangements needed to be made. For all of this, he stayed patient. Who Clay was or what he had done or how he profited from this mattered less and less every hour. By the time Clay sent him word for a meeting and walked into the sitting room, Remy had only one question he truly cared to hear the answer to. “Where is Edward? Why have you come without him?”
Clay looked at him. It seemed as though, for a few moments, he did not understand what he had been asked. What it at last made sense to him, he chuckled. It was a genuine sound but very soft and stunted. He had few reasons to remember how to laugh properly. “He is on his way,” he explained. “I rode hard for a few days to come here faster, and he remained with the carriage. It should only be another day or two.” Remy watched him carefully as he spoke and made no secret of it. A spy’s story could be twisted only so much. At last, though, he nodded— a sign of putting his faith in that explanation.
Now, he felt more at liberty to ask questions. Why should he not try and dissect this man when given the chance? “To what do Mister Burr and I owe this favour?”
Clay gave himself time to choose his words before he replied, “I have many reasons.” Remy had to wonder why the man had considered medicine; everything about him suggested a flair for the political arena. “You saved me from the noose or worse. Even if you did no more than be silent, you protected me. You knew what I was; one word from you, and I would have been killed, at best, no doubt after having been tortured first.” Remy was sure now, hearing him speak, he would have died before he surrendered any information. “Mister Burr is also a dear friend of mine.” They had not been so close last time they three had been all together; he was sure of that. “I have tried to look after his interests, and you must realise it is best for him if you are able to leave silently and unharmed.” He could admire such practicality. “And because I love Nathaniel.” That surprised him. “Nathaniel and his father both believe in protecting love. I know Edward loves you, and I actually think you love him. So, for Nathaniel, I want to see this end as painlessly as possible.” A wide array of reasons, he knew, any or all of which could be false.
“And should I trust you?”
“No,” Clay said. “I am a loyal English intelligence officer. You are a French Republican. In a few months at most, our countries will be at war, and neither of us will be sorry to be enemies.” He leaned forward, very intent. “However, Edward may trust me. I believe he will prove most loyal to his country, not his heart. I am willing to stake my life on it. He will go far; I intend to see to that.” He reclined again, as if he could not decide what posture produced the greatest effect. “He may trust me, and you may trust I will do all I can to help him.” Truly, England had lost a great member of its Parliament the day Clay picked up a medical text.
Remy knew he had no real choice in the matter. He had put himself at Clay’s mercy the moment he had taken one of David’s horses. He’d written an apology, brief explanation of the circumstances, and left money to compensate for the temporary absence of the beast. If other spies arrive to spirit him away or Edward never came, he would know he chose poorly. The one thing he could not bring himself to do was doubt. If this was a trap, Edward was as unsuspecting as he. Edward’s letter was sent in good faith. Where his certainty and trust came from, he could not say. He merely knew, and that was good enough for him. He was allowed a few instances of blind trust.
“Thank you, Mister Clay,” he finally said. The words were as difficult for him to say as they seemed to be fore the other man to comprehend. Clay bowed his head briefly in acknowledgement then rose. Without another word, he quit the room.
In a way, Remy felt grateful. There was no presumption. There was no deception. Neither he nor Clay trusted one another, and they would not pretend otherwise. They both believed wholly in the third party that bound them together in this. For that, Remy decided, he would consult Clay, too, on the matter he had written to Edward concerning. It could not be done now, even though they had little else to discuss. Clay’s opinion would likely be more useful, his strategy for how to proceed the soundest. Yet, that was not what mattered most to Remy. He must tell Edward. It could only be him who told him, and no one else could first hear it from him. He owed his dear Englishman at least that, he felt, even if it would be far easier to pass word through another or leave it in writing, not let Edward know until he was gone. He was no coward, though.
‡ ‡ ‡
For two days, he had treated Joseph like a stranger. It had not been wholly intentional, but Nathaniel knew he could not pretend it had been all accident either. During the day, he endured Rebecca’s constant tears and they became near hysterics if he seemed at all upset himself. The nights were his own, and he had spent them thoroughly shrouded in his own misery, content to ignore that Joseph would feel the loss as well.
By the third night, however, he could no longer stand the loneliness. He knocked at Joseph’s door Nathaniel knew he deserved to be turned away. He had shunned the man after all their years. He had, in his grief, pushed away his one source of joy. Joseph would be well within his rights to make him wait, to subject him to days of the state he had chosen for himself. There were no words he could offer, no apology or explanation. Joseph had begged him to stay, and he had done precisely the opposite. He had chosen his fate.
Nathaniel resigned himself to how it must be. Just as he began to turn away, the door opened. Joseph viewed him without speech, and he could conjure nothing. He bowed his head apologetically and stepped back. Before he could go, Joseph touched his wrist. He stepped forward and touched Nathaniel’s cheek. He buckled into the touch, and Joseph was prepared to brace him. Even as he tried again to say anything, Joseph stroked his cheek and led him into a gentle kiss. Tears began to fall. He had felt too numb or had been trying too hard to show strength for Rebecca; he had never yet let himself cry. Joseph said nothing, called no attention to it, merely continued to kiss him as he gingerly coaxed Nathaniel into his room and shut the door behind them. Nathaniel could not bring himself to care who might have seen.
Book Three
Chapter Seventeen
Joseph all but threw himself off his horse as soon as Luke York, the Farley family’s groom approached him. He heard the man say something but ignored him entirely. What mattered— the only thing that mattered— was seeing the elder Mister Farley. During his entire ride, he had thought only about how fast his horse could go for how long without laming the creature for life. He had not thought to consider what he would say or how he would phrase all of this. He had just expected, somehow, for his mentor to understand how important it was to protect an enemy of the king— of any king— from one of His Majesty’s naval intelligence officers. He had not realised how near he was treading toward treason, if he had not already crossed that fatal line. Perhaps if he gave his oath to repay this act with a hundred each tenfold more important to England and made good on his word, the man would somehow begin to see how peculiar of a case this was. For his part, in full honesty, Joseph was not sure he could offer any true explanation. Somehow, Edward and Martineau and their plight had become inexorably entwined with his love for Nathaniel and to aid one was to prove and affirm the other. It made no sense, he knew it, but he was powerless to change any of it.
He felt some deep relief when he entered the house and saw not Nathaniel but Martineau standing there, as if to greet him. Joseph smiled despite the exhaustion stalking his every movement. It did not matter to him how they had last parted, not in this moment. He cared only that the man was here, far sooner than he had anticipated. That meant his note had been seen and at least partially heeded and obeyed. For all he knew, of course, Mister Farley might have sent at once for Miles. He could, at least, hope that had not passed just yet.
“Monsieur Du—” Martineau caught himself and corrected. “Monsieur Clay. If I could have a moment of your time before you—”
“In a moment, Capitaine,” he said in French. Catching the maid hurrying by at the arm, he said in English, “Is Mister Farley in his room? I must speak with him.” She began to respond, but he released her, sure of the answer. “Of course he is. I’ll only disturb him for a moment or two.”
Joseph strode down the hall quickly, his long steps allowing for it even more so than usual. Whatever his host and teacher had assumed about Martineau’s presence, he would see to setting the record straight while the needs of his patient were addressed. After that, he would explain himself to Nathaniel, detail his predicament, and devise some fairy tale for Rebecca. Perhaps he would even leave the latter task to Martineau himself. Whom he must also sit down with at some point if they were to reach some sort of accord.
The calmer he became, the clearer his mind got. As his thoughts arranged themselves into something bearing a resemblance to coherency, he realised the undertaking to which he had volunteered himself. Still, he would see to everything. Now that he could view the tasks which must be achieved, he could order them according to the most pressing. Nathaniel and Martineau were key, naturally. Rebecca was, at best, a small, secondary concern. The patriarch of the Farley family and his own sage, however, was primary. Without his base cooperation, all else was meaningless. Joseph fathered all his nerve and entered the man’s private parlour.
The sight of Nathaniel sitting in his father’s great armchair, draped in the shadows of the fire, surprised him.
“Nathaniel,” he whispered. He tried to explain to himself why this was so odd. It was perfectly ordinary for the other man to visit his father. Every other thought left his mind for a moment, and he saw only that scene in this instant. He considered how Nathaniel leaned back, away from the firelight. He took in the silence from all corners. Then, it dawned on him. This seemed so queer to him because Nathaniel was alone and seated where Joseph had only ever seen Mister Farley sit. His voice wavered. “Nathaniel, what’s wrong?”
“You’re too late, Joseph,” Nathaniel replied, his quiet voice barely audible. Perhaps, he considered, he did not want to hear himself. “Father’s dead.”
Joseph fell silent. He recognised the expression, now. He had seen Nathaniel look that way before. Eight years ago, when he’d first come to Heather Grange, he’d seen the young master still in a fog of melancholy over the loss of his mother. Then, Nathaniel had been skirting the edge, eager to leave it but with no certainty as to how. He had only needed an offered hand to pull himself from it, and Joseph had been happy to give that assistance. Now, though, he was here to prevent him from wandering too far in to start. He crossed the room and knelt in front of the chair. Without a word, he folded Nathaniel’s hands then closed his around them. He looked up, straight into the other man’s eyes.
“Nathaniel,” he whispered. “Promise me you’ll stay with me. I need you here, Nathaniel. Rebecca needs you, too.” He tightened his told on his sweetheart’s hands. “I’m sorry, my love. Grieve, yes, but you cannot leave us. Please, Nathaniel. You must promise me you’ll stay here with us. I know it’s hard. I know you want to be away.”
“Of course,” Nathaniel muttered. He held Joseph’s gaze, not clutching to his hands or attempting to break the contact. He sounded so tired, Joseph wanted to send him to bed, but he knew sleep would do little for this sort of fatigue. “I can’t leave. I’m the only one who can’t leave. Do you realise that?” Joseph almost spoke but swiftly thought better of it. Whatever Nathaniel had to say, he would let him say it. “Rebecca is ill so often. She must be watched. She only tolerates servants so much and so long before she must have family tend to her. Henry staggers about the country to God knows where without a care for anyone else. Father falls ill, and I must return to see to him. Even you may come and go as you like. But I can’t leave.”
Joseph squeezed his hands. It would have harmed his heart less to hear the words shouted. Even if Nathaniel had made them accusations. Instead, they had merely fallen from his lips as fixed facts to which he was wholly resigned. “Darling,” he murmured, hoping a sweet tone would help warm this man who meant so much to him and whom he feared was fast slipping away.
“Come,” Nathaniel said. He hauled himself to his feet and pulled his hands fee. “My father charged me with seeing your instructions regarding our French guest carried out.” He walked toward the door of the room, bearing for the hall, and Joseph rose with haste to follow. “I will see it done, but you knew that.” Joseph watched the back of Nathaniel’s head, keeping pace so he was ever two steps behind him. For now, the man had no need for a doting lover, so Joseph regained. “All I ask is that you explain,” he said as he led him out back doors and into the bracing cold air, “why you have sent him to my house.”
‡ ‡ ‡
He was enough of a gentleman not to verbally point out to Clay that he had tried to warn him. Clay likely would have taken issue with the remark; Mister Farley certainly would have. He would never have said it in front of the master of the house, but Remy did not, for one moment, suppose the man would not somehow learn of it had he uttered the words. Fear of reprisal was not all that silenced him. Even he respected a house in mourning.
It took Clay two days to seek him out. The head of the household had to be seen to, then his sister, and the burial arrangements needed to be made. For all of this, he stayed patient. Who Clay was or what he had done or how he profited from this mattered less and less every hour. By the time Clay sent him word for a meeting and walked into the sitting room, Remy had only one question he truly cared to hear the answer to. “Where is Edward? Why have you come without him?”
Clay looked at him. It seemed as though, for a few moments, he did not understand what he had been asked. What it at last made sense to him, he chuckled. It was a genuine sound but very soft and stunted. He had few reasons to remember how to laugh properly. “He is on his way,” he explained. “I rode hard for a few days to come here faster, and he remained with the carriage. It should only be another day or two.” Remy watched him carefully as he spoke and made no secret of it. A spy’s story could be twisted only so much. At last, though, he nodded— a sign of putting his faith in that explanation.
Now, he felt more at liberty to ask questions. Why should he not try and dissect this man when given the chance? “To what do Mister Burr and I owe this favour?”
Clay gave himself time to choose his words before he replied, “I have many reasons.” Remy had to wonder why the man had considered medicine; everything about him suggested a flair for the political arena. “You saved me from the noose or worse. Even if you did no more than be silent, you protected me. You knew what I was; one word from you, and I would have been killed, at best, no doubt after having been tortured first.” Remy was sure now, hearing him speak, he would have died before he surrendered any information. “Mister Burr is also a dear friend of mine.” They had not been so close last time they three had been all together; he was sure of that. “I have tried to look after his interests, and you must realise it is best for him if you are able to leave silently and unharmed.” He could admire such practicality. “And because I love Nathaniel.” That surprised him. “Nathaniel and his father both believe in protecting love. I know Edward loves you, and I actually think you love him. So, for Nathaniel, I want to see this end as painlessly as possible.” A wide array of reasons, he knew, any or all of which could be false.
“And should I trust you?”
“No,” Clay said. “I am a loyal English intelligence officer. You are a French Republican. In a few months at most, our countries will be at war, and neither of us will be sorry to be enemies.” He leaned forward, very intent. “However, Edward may trust me. I believe he will prove most loyal to his country, not his heart. I am willing to stake my life on it. He will go far; I intend to see to that.” He reclined again, as if he could not decide what posture produced the greatest effect. “He may trust me, and you may trust I will do all I can to help him.” Truly, England had lost a great member of its Parliament the day Clay picked up a medical text.
Remy knew he had no real choice in the matter. He had put himself at Clay’s mercy the moment he had taken one of David’s horses. He’d written an apology, brief explanation of the circumstances, and left money to compensate for the temporary absence of the beast. If other spies arrive to spirit him away or Edward never came, he would know he chose poorly. The one thing he could not bring himself to do was doubt. If this was a trap, Edward was as unsuspecting as he. Edward’s letter was sent in good faith. Where his certainty and trust came from, he could not say. He merely knew, and that was good enough for him. He was allowed a few instances of blind trust.
“Thank you, Mister Clay,” he finally said. The words were as difficult for him to say as they seemed to be fore the other man to comprehend. Clay bowed his head briefly in acknowledgement then rose. Without another word, he quit the room.
In a way, Remy felt grateful. There was no presumption. There was no deception. Neither he nor Clay trusted one another, and they would not pretend otherwise. They both believed wholly in the third party that bound them together in this. For that, Remy decided, he would consult Clay, too, on the matter he had written to Edward concerning. It could not be done now, even though they had little else to discuss. Clay’s opinion would likely be more useful, his strategy for how to proceed the soundest. Yet, that was not what mattered most to Remy. He must tell Edward. It could only be him who told him, and no one else could first hear it from him. He owed his dear Englishman at least that, he felt, even if it would be far easier to pass word through another or leave it in writing, not let Edward know until he was gone. He was no coward, though.
‡ ‡ ‡
For two days, he had treated Joseph like a stranger. It had not been wholly intentional, but Nathaniel knew he could not pretend it had been all accident either. During the day, he endured Rebecca’s constant tears and they became near hysterics if he seemed at all upset himself. The nights were his own, and he had spent them thoroughly shrouded in his own misery, content to ignore that Joseph would feel the loss as well.
By the third night, however, he could no longer stand the loneliness. He knocked at Joseph’s door Nathaniel knew he deserved to be turned away. He had shunned the man after all their years. He had, in his grief, pushed away his one source of joy. Joseph would be well within his rights to make him wait, to subject him to days of the state he had chosen for himself. There were no words he could offer, no apology or explanation. Joseph had begged him to stay, and he had done precisely the opposite. He had chosen his fate.
Nathaniel resigned himself to how it must be. Just as he began to turn away, the door opened. Joseph viewed him without speech, and he could conjure nothing. He bowed his head apologetically and stepped back. Before he could go, Joseph touched his wrist. He stepped forward and touched Nathaniel’s cheek. He buckled into the touch, and Joseph was prepared to brace him. Even as he tried again to say anything, Joseph stroked his cheek and led him into a gentle kiss. Tears began to fall. He had felt too numb or had been trying too hard to show strength for Rebecca; he had never yet let himself cry. Joseph said nothing, called no attention to it, merely continued to kiss him as he gingerly coaxed Nathaniel into his room and shut the door behind them. Nathaniel could not bring himself to care who might have seen.